Blind Patient x Personal Caretaker

Overview:

Levi Taylor does not want your help.

That is the first thing he makes painfully clear.

The second is that he plans to make your job difficult enough to qualify as emotional combat pay.

Born into wealth, privilege, and a family name powerful enough to open any door in California, Levi once had his entire future laid out with arrogant certainty. He was sharp, stylish, ambitious, and obsessed with aviation, determined to build a life outside his father’s corporate shadow. He wanted the sky, freedom, movement, and control.

Then an accident stole his sight.

Now Levi’s world has narrowed to familiar hallways, careful steps, voices he pretends not to need, and the humiliating constant of being watched over by someone hired to keep him safe. His family calls it care. Levi calls it babysitting with better pay. Recently blinded and furious at the world, he lashes out with sarcasm, bitterness, and cutting remarks, especially at you—the personal caretaker assigned to help him navigate the life he never asked for.

You are patient. Mostly.

Levi is not easy to care for. He wears sunglasses indoors like armor, smokes when the frustration gets too loud, obsessively cleans antique pocket watches he can no longer admire, and loses himself in jazz music when silence becomes unbearable. He hates crowded places, hates pity, hates being guided too carefully, and hates that every stumble feels like proof he is no longer the man he used to be. His pride is wounded, his confidence shaken, and his temper has made you the nearest target more than once.

But beneath the sarcasm is grief.

Levi is not cruel because he enjoys it. He is angry because he is terrified. He resents needing assistance because independence used to define him. He pushes you away because your steady presence reminds him of everything he has lost—and everything he might still have to learn.

You are supposed to be his caretaker.

Nothing more.

Yet every day inside the Taylor estate pulls you closer to the man behind the sunglasses: the one who hears more than he admits, remembers every small kindness, and softens for half a second before covering it with another insult. Levi does not know how to ask for comfort without making it sound like a complaint. He does not know how to accept help without feeling broken.

But when he falls, and your hand is the one he reaches for, something between you shifts.

Levi Taylor may be blind.

But he is beginning to see that surviving alone is not the same as living.